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Jir«v»ar  I,  1847. 

A  LIST  OF  BOOKS 

RECENTLY    PU3LISHED    BY 

WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR  &  COMPANY, 

Corner  of  OTasIjfnjjton  auto  Sctjool  Streets, 
BOSTON. 


LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS. 


LONGFELLOW'S  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT.     A 

New  Edition.     In  one  volume,  lGmo,  price  75  cents. 
ii. 

LONGFELLOW'S   BALLADS   and  Other   Poems. 

A  New  Edition.     In  one  volume,  lGmo,  price  75  cents, 
in. 

LONGFELLOW'S  SPANISH  STUDENT.     A  Play 

in  Three  Acts.    A  New  Edition.   In  one  volume,  lGmo.   Price  75  cents. 

IV. 

LONGFELLOW'S    BELFRY    OF    BRUGES   and 

OTHER  POEMS.  A  New  Edition.  In  one  volume,  lGmo.  Price  75cents. 
v. 

THE  WAIF.  A  Collection  of  Poems.  Edited  by  Long- 

fellow     A  New  Edition.   In  one  volume,  lGmo.    Price  75  cents. 


LONGP2LLOWS  PROSE  WORKS. 


LONGFELLOW'S  OUTRE   MER.     A  Pilgrimage 

Beyond  the  Sea.     A  New  Edition.     In  one  volume,  16mo.    Price  $1.00. 
a. 

LONGFELLOW'S  HYPERION.     A  Romance.     A 

New  Edition.     In  one  volume,  lGmo.     Price  $1.00. 


A   LIST   OF   BOOKS   RECENTLY   PUBLISHED 


POETRY. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.     Poems.     In  two  volumes, 

J6mo,  price  $1.50. 

II. 

BARRY  CORNWALL.     English  Songs  and  other 

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WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.    Poems  Narrative  and 

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LEIGH  HUNT.    Story  of  Rimini,  and  other  Poems. 

In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

VI. 

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VII. 

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J.  F.  Colman.     In  one  volume,  16mo. 
vm. 

SONGS  OF  OUR  LAND  and  OTHER  POEMS.    By 

Mary  E.  Hewitt.     One  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

IX. 

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x. 

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[OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.    Poems.    London, 

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THE   CONSTITUTION   OF  MAN  ;  Considered   in 

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THE    WAIF. 


THE    WAIF: 


COLLECTION    OF    POEMS, 


A  Waif,  the  which  by  fortune  came 
Upon  your  seas,  he  claimed  as  property  ; 
And  yet  nor  his,  nor  his  in  equity, 
But  yours  the  waif  by  high  prerogative. 

THE  FAERIE  QUEENE. 


FIFTH     EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM    D.  TICKNOR   &  CO., 

1846. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844,  by 

John  Owen, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

METCALP    AND    COMPANY, 

PRINTEUS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS. 


Proem 


PACE 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW.       ix 


The  Song  of  the  Forge 
A  Song         .... 
Why  thus  longing? 
The  Monks  of  Old  . 
Hymn  to  the  Flowers 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 
Afar  in  the  desert 

The  Camp 

Song         .  

Autumn         

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant    . 
He  standeth  at  the  door 
kulnasatz,  my  reindeer     . 
Sonnet  on  Autumn    . 

April 

Song 

The  Awakening  of  Endymion     . 
The  Lily  of  Nithsdale  . 
To  the  Mocking-bird  . 
Church-bells  heard  at  Evening 
The  Death-bed     .... 


anonymous. 

thomas  carew. 

anonymous. 

q.  p.  r.  jamf.s. 

horace  smith. 

horace  smith. 

thomas  pringle. 

robert  browning. 

p.  b.  shelley. 

john  mai  (  oh. 

mrs.  blackwood. 

.      A.  C.  COXE. 

LAPLAND  SONG. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ANONYMOUS. 

.  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


1 

6 
9 
11 
14 
18 
22 
27 
30 
32 
34 
38 
40 
42 
43 
46 
48 
53 
55 
56 
58 


CONTENTS. 


The  Evening  Hour   . 

Love         .... 

Night  among  the  Alps 

They  are  all  gone 

To  a  Lady 

Each  in  All 

The  Lover  to  the  Glowworms     andrew  marvel. 

Hymn  of  the  Church-yard 

Dirge  in  Autumn 

The  Drop  of  Dew 

Wishes         .... 

To  Althea,  from  Prison     . 

Death  of  a  Child     . 

Human  Pride 

To  Lucasta 

Where  are  the  dead  ? 

A  Christmas  Hymn    . 

No    MORE  .... 

To  Daffodils 

To  Primroses 

To  Blossoms 

The  Grasshopper 

Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day    francis  o.uarles. 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs  .         .        .         thomas  hood. 

The  Antique  Sepulchre  .         .     mrs.  hemans. 

Et    EXALTAVIT    HUMILES  .         WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 

Lines  to  a  Withered  Leaf     .         .        jones  very. 
Song  for  August        .         .  Harriet  martineau. 

The  Indian  Burying-ground        .    philip  freneau. 


MRS.  C  B.  WILSON. 

.   ANONYMOUS. 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

.   HENRY  VAUGHAN. 

ANONYMOUS. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


JOHN  BETHUNE. 

W. G. CLARK. 

.     ANDREW  MARVEL. 

RICHARD  CRASHAW. 

RICHARD  LOVELACE. 

.  JOHN  PIERPONT. 

.    ANDREW  MARVEL. 

RICHARD  LOVELACE. 

.      ANONYMOUS. 

ALFRED  DOMMETT. 

MRS.  HEMANS. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 

.  ROBERT  HERRICK. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 

RICHARD  LOVELACE. 


60 

62 

65 

69 

71 

73 

76 

78 

81 

84 

87 

91 

93 

97 

101 

103 

108 

111 

114 

116 

118 

120 

123 

126 

132 

136 

139 

141 

143 


PROEM 


PROEM 


The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist ; 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  onlv 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 


PROEM. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heai'tfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavour ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 


PROEM.  XI 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 
Cambridge,  December,  1844. 


THE    WAIF. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   FORGE. 


Clang,  clang !  the  massive  anvils  ring  • 
Clang,  clang  !  a  hundred  hammers  swing  ; 
Like  the  thunder-rattle  of  a  tropic  sky  ; 
The  mighty  blows  still  multiply  ; 

Clang,  clang ! 
Say,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow, 
What  are  your  strong  arms  forging  now  ? 
l 


THE    WAIF. 

Clang,  clang !  —  We  forge  the  coulter  now,  — 

The  coulter  of  the  kindly  plough  ; 

Sweet  Mary  mother,  bless  our  toil ! 
May  its  broad  furrow  still  unbind 
To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind, 

The  most  benignant  soil ! 

Clang,  clang !  —  Our  coulter's  course  shall  be 
On  many  a  sweet  and  sheltered  lea, 

By  many  a  streamlet's  silver  tide, 
Amidst  the  song  of  morning  birds, 
Amidst  the  low  of  sauntering  herds, 
Amidst  soft  breezes  which  do  stray 
Through  woodbine  hedges  and  sweet  May, 

Along  the  green  hill's  side. 

When  regal  autumn's  bounteous  hand 
With  wide-spread  glory  clothes  the  land  ; 
When  to  the  valleys,  from  the  brow 

Of  each  resplendent  slope,  is  rolled 

A  ruddy  sea  of  living  gold, 
We  bless,  —  we  bless  the  tlough. 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    FORGE. 

Clang,  clang ! — Again,  my  mates,  what  glows 
Beneath  the  hammer's  potent  blows  ?  — 
Clink,  clank  !  —  We  forge  the  giant  chain, 
Which  bears  the  gallant  vessel's  strain, 
'Midst  stormy  winds  and  adverse  tides  ; 
Secured  by  this,  the  good  ship  braves 
The  rocky  roadstead,  and  the  waves 
Which  thunder  on  her  sides. 

Anxious  no  more,  the  merchant  sees 

The  mist  drive  dark  before  the  breeze, 

The  storm-cloud  on  the  hill ; 

Calmly  he  rests,  though  far  away 
In  boisterous  climes  his  vessel  lay, 

Reliant  on  our  skill. 

Say  on  what  sands  these  links  shall  sleep, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  solemn  deep ; 
By  Afric's  pestilential  shore,  — 
By  many  an  iceberg,  lone  and  hoar,  — 
By  many  a  palmy  Western  isle, 
Basking  in  spring's  perpetual  smile,  — 
By  stormy  Labrador. 


THE    WAIF. 

Say,  shall  they  feel  the  vessel  reel, 

When  to  the  battery's  deadly  peal 

The  crashing  broadside  makes  reply  ? 
Or  else,  as  at  the  glorious  Nile, 
Hold  grappling  ships,  that  strive  the  while 

For  death  or  victory  ? 

Hurrah !  —  Cling,  clang !  —  Once  more,  what  glows, 
Dark  brothers  of  the  forge,  beneath 

The  iron  tempest  of  your  blows, 
The  furnace's  red  breath  ? 

Clang,  clang  S  —  A  burning  torrent,  clear 
And  brilliant,  of  bright  sparks,  is  poured 

Around  and  up  in  the  dusky  air, 
As  our  hammers  forge  the  savord. 

The  sword  !  —  a  name  of  dread  ;  yet  when 
Upon  the  freeman's  thigh  't  is  bound, 

While  for  his  altar  and  his  hearth, 

While  for  the  land  that  gave  him  birth, 
The  war-drums  roll,  the  trumpets  sound, 

How  sacred  is  it  then  ! 


THE    SONG   OF   THE   FORGE. 

Whenever  for  the  truth  and  right 
It  flashes  in  the  van  of  fight,  — 
Whether  in  some  wild  mountain-pass, 
As  that  where  fell  Leonidas,  — 
Or  on  some  sterile  plain,  and  stern, 
A  Marston  or  a  Bannockburn,  — 
Or  'mid  fierce  crags  and  bursting  rills, 
The  Switzer's  Alps,  gray  Tyrol's  hills,  — 
Or,  as  when  sunk  the  Armada's  pride, 
It  gleams  above  the  stormy  tide,  — 
Still,  still,  whene'er  the  battle-word 
Is  Liberty,  when  men  do  stand 
For  justice  and  their  native  land, 
Then  Heaven  bless  the  swokd  ! 


A  SONG. 


It  is  not  beauty  I  demand, 

A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair, 
Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand, 

Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair. 

Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes, 
Your  lips,  that  seem  on  roses  fed, 

Your  breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies, 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed,  — 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks, 
Like  Hebe's  in  her  ruddiest  hours, 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 

Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers. 


A   SONG. 

These  are  but  gauds ;  nay,  what  are  lips  ? 

Coral  beneath  the  ocean-stream, 
Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  slips, 

Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  ensigns  oft, 
That  wave  hot  youth  to  fields  of  blood  ? 

Did  Helen's  breast,  though  ne'er  so  soft, 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 

Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardor  burn, 

Poison  can  breathe,  that  erst  perfumed  ; 

There  's  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn, 
With  lover's  hearts  to  dust  consumed. 

For  crystal  brows,  there  's  naught  within ; 

They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride ; 
He  who  the  Siren's  hair  would  win 

Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  beauty's  bust, 
A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind, 


THE   WAIF. 

Which  with  temptation  I  would  trust, 
Yet  never  linked  with  error  find ;  — 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 
Like  the  care-burdened  honey-fly, 

That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose  ;  - 

My  earthly  comforter !  whose  love 

So  indefeasible  might  be, 
That,  when  my  spirit  won  above, 

Hers  could  not  stay,  for  sympathy. 


WHY  THUS  LONGING? 


Why  thus  longing,  thus  for  ever  sighing, 
For  the  far  off,  unattained,  and  dim  ; 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still ; 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching, 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  tlirow ; 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe ; 


10  THE    WAIF. 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten,  — 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own ; 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten, 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd's  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown, 

Not  by  martyrdom,  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 
Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give  ; 

Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only, 
And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 


11 


THE   MONKS  OF  OLD. 


I  envy  them,  —  those  monks  of  old,  — 
Their  books  they  read,  and  their  beads  they  told  ; 
To  human  softness  dead  and  cold, 
And  all  life's  vanity. 

They  dwelt  like  shadows  on  the  earth, 
Free  from  the  penalties  of  birth, 
Nor  let  one  feeling  venture  forth 
But  Christian  charity. 

I  envy  them  ;  their  cloistered  hearts 
Knew  not  the  bitter  pang  that  parts 
Beings  that  all  affection's  arts 
Had  linked  in  unity. 


12  THE   WAIF. 

The  tomb  to  them  was  not  a  place 
To  drown  the  best-loved  of  their  race, 
And  blot  out  each  sweet  memory's  trace 
In  dull  obscurity : 

To  them  it  was  the  calmest  bed 
That  rests  the  aching  human  head  : 
They  looked  with  envy  on  the  dead, 
And  not  with  agony. 

No  bonds  they  felt,  no  ties  they  broke, 
No  music  of  the  heart  they  woke, 
When  one  brief  moment  it  had  spoke, 
To  lose  it  suddenly. 

Peaceful  they  lived,  —  peaceful  they  died  ; 
And  those  that  did  their  fate  abide 
Saw  brothers  wither  by  their  side 
In  all  tranquillity. 


THE    MONKS    OF    OLD.  13 

They  loved  not,  dreamed  not,  —  for  their  sphere 
Held  not  joy's  visions  ;  —  but  the  tear 
Of  broken  hope,  of  anxious  fear, 
Was  not  their  misery. 

I  envy  them,  —  those  monks  of  old  ; 
And  when  their  statues  I  behold, 
Carved  in  the  marble,  calm  and  cold, 
How  true  an  effigy ! 

I  wish  my  heart  were  as  calm  and  still 
To  beams  that  fleet,  and  blasts  that  chill, 
And  pangs  that  pay  joy's  spendthrift  thrill 
With  bitter  usury. 


14 


HYMN  TO  THE   FLOWERS. 


Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn  to  twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lovely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation ! 

Ye  matin  worshippers !  who,  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high ! 

Ye  bright  mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tesscllate, 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create ! 


HYMN    TO   THE   FLOWERS.  15 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 

Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 

A  call  to  prayer ! 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand  ; 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn 
Which  God  hath  planned ! 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder 

Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply, 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder, 
Its  dome  the  sky  ! 

There,  —  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Through  the  lone  aisles,  or  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God,  — 

Your  voiceless  lips,  O  flowers,  are  living  preachers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book, 


16  THE    WAIF. 

Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook ! 

Floral  apostles !  that  in  dewy  splendor 

Weep  without  sin  and  blush  without  a  crime, 
O,  may  I  deeply  learn  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  love  sublime ! 

"  Thou  wast  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory, 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes  like  ours  "  : 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !    O,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers  ! 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  Artist ! 

With  which  thou  paintest  Nature's  wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all  ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers !  though  made  for  pleasure, 

Blooming  o'er  fields  and  wave  by  day  and  night, 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 


HYMN    TO    THE    FLOWERS.  17 

Ephemeral  sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope  ! 

Posthumous  glories  !  angel-like  collection  ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I,  O  God  !  in  churchless  lands  remaining, 

Far  from  all  teachers  and  from  all  divines, 
My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining, 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines ! 


18 


WHY  ARE   THEY  SHUT? 


Why  are  our  churches  shut  with  jealous  care, 
Bolted  and  barred  against  our  bosom's  yearning, 

Save  for  the  few  short  hours  of  Sabbath  prayer, 
With,the  bell's  tolling  statedly  returning  ? 

Why  are  they  shut  ? 

If  with  diurnal  drudgeries  o'erwrought, 

Or  sick  of  dissipation's  dull  vagaries, 
We  wish  to  snatch  one  little  space  for  thought, 

Or  holy  respite,  in  our  sanctuaries, 

Why  are  they  shut  ? 

What !  shall  the  church,  the  house  of  prayer  no  more, 
Give  tacit  notice  from  its  fastened  portals, 


WHY    ARE    THEY    SHUT?  19 

That  for  six  days  't  is  useless  to  adore, 

Since  God  will  hold  no  communings  with  mortals  ? 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 

Are  there  no  sinners  in  the  churchless  week 
Who  wish  to  sanctify  a  vowed  repentance  ? 

Are  there  no -hearts  bereft  which  fain  would  seek 
The  only  balm  for  death's  unpitying  sentence  ? 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 

Are  there  no  poor,  no  wronged,  no  heirs  of  grief, 
No  sick,  who,  when  their  strength  or  courage  falters, 

Long  for  a  moment's  respite  or  relief, 

By  kneeling  at  the  God  of  mercy's  altars  ? 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 

Are  there  no  wicked,  whom,  if  tempted  in, 

Some  qualm  of  conscience  or  devout  suggestion 

Might  suddenly  redeem  from  future  sin  ? 
O,  if  there  be,  how  solemn  is  the  question, 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 


20  THE    WAIF. 

In  foreign  climes  mechanics  leave  their  tasks 

To  breathe  a  passing  prayer  in  their  cathedrals  ; 
There  they  have  week-day  shrines,  and  no  one  asks, 
When  he  would  kneel  to  them,  and  count  his  bead- 
rolls, 

Why  are  they  shut  ? 

Seeing  them  enter  sad  and  disconcerted, 

To  quit  those  cheering  fanes  with  looks  of  glad- 
ness, — 
How  often  have  my  thoughts  to  ours  reverted  ! 
How  oft  have  I  exclaimed,  in  tones  of  sadness, 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 

For  who  within  a  parish  church  can  stroll, 
Wrapt  in  its  week-day  stillness  and  vacation, 

Nor  feel  that  in  the  very  air  his  soul 

Ecceives  a  sweet  and  hallowing  lustration  ? 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 

The  vacant  pews,  blank  aisles,  and  empty  choir, 
All  in  a  deep  sepulchral  silence  shrouded, 


WHY   ARE    THEY    SHUT  ?  21 

An  awe  more  solemn  and  intense  inspire, 

Than  when  with  Sabbath  congregations  crowded. 
Why  arc  they  shut  ? 

The  echoes  of  our  footsteps,  as  we  tread 
On  hollow  graves,  are  spiritual  voices ; 

And,  holding  mental  converse  with  the  dead, 
In  holy  reveries  our  soul  rejoices. 

Why  are  they  shut  ? 

If  there  be  one,  —  one  only, — who  might  share 
This  sanctifying  week-day  adoration, 

Were  but  our  churches  open  to  his  prayer, 
Why,  —  I  demand  with  earnest  iteration,  — 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 


22 


AFAR  IN  THE   DESERT. 


Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  cling  to  the  past ; 
When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears, 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years  ; 
And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled 
Flit  over  the  brain,  like  ghost  of  the  dead  : 
Bright  visions  of  glory,  that  vanished  too  soon , 
Day-dreams,  that  departed  ere  manhood's  noon ; 
Attachments,  by  fate  or  by  falsehood  reft ; 
Companions  of  early  days,  lost  or  left ; 
And  my  native  land,  whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame  ; 


AFAE    IN    THE    DESERT.  23 

The  home  of  my  childhood  ;  the  haunts  of  my  prime  ; 
All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time 
When  the  feelings  were  young  and  the  world  was 

new, 
Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to  view  ; 
All,  all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  foregone ; 
And  I,  a  lone  exile,  remembered  by  none  ; 
My  high  aims  abandoned,  my  good  acts  undone, 
Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun  ;  — 
With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger  may 

scan, 
I  fly  to  the  desert  afar  from  man ! 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 

When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 

With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and  strife  ; 

The  proud  man's  frown  and  the  base  man's  fear, 

The  scorner's  laugh  and  the  sufferer's  tear, 

And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and  folly, 

Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy  ; 

When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are  high, 

And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman's  sigh, — 


24  THE    WAIF. 

0,  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride, 
Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride  ! 
There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 
And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed, 
With  the  death- fraught  firelock  in  my  hand, — 
The  only  law  of  the  desert  land  ! 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 

Away,  away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 

By  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  buffalo's  glen  ; 

By  the  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest  graze, 

And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 

By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o'erhung  with  wild-vine  ; 

Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood, 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood, 

And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 

In  the  fen  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side : 


AFAR    IN    THE    DESEIIT.  25 

O'er  the  brown  karroo,  where  the  fleeting  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively, 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  shrill-whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain ; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped  their  nest, 
Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parched  karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 

Away,  away,  in  the  wilderness  vast, 

Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath  never  passed, 

And  the  quivered  Coranna  or  Bechuan 

Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan  ; 

A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 

Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  and  fear ; 

Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone, 

With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning  stone  ; 


26  THE    WAIF. 

Where  gi*ass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 
Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 
And  the  bitter  melon,  for  food  and  drink, 
Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt  lake's  brink  ; 
A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides  ; 
Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 
Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 
Appears  to  refresh  the  aching  eye  ; 
But  the  barren  earth,  and  the  burning  sky, 
And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 
Spread,  void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night-winds  round  me  sigh, 
And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 
As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone, 
Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave  alone, 
A  still  small  voice  comes  through  the  wild, 
Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child, 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear, 
Saying,  —  Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near  ! 


27 


THE   CAMP. 


You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon ; 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound    Napoleon 

Stood,  on  our  storming  day  ; 
With  neck  outthrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans, 
That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 

Let  once  my  army-leader,  Lannes, 
Waver  at  yonder  wall," 


28  THE   WAIF. 

Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect,  — 
So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through, — 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor  !  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  marshal  's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him ! "  The  chief's  eye  flashed  :  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 


the  c^mp.  29 

The  chief's  eye  (lashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother  eagle's  eye, 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
"  You  're  wounded ! "  "  Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"  I  'm  killed,  Sire  !  "     And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


ao 


SONG. 


As  the  moon's  soft  splendor 
O'er  the  faint,  cold  starlight  of  heaven 
Is  thrown, 
So  thy  voice  most  tender 
To  the  strings  without  soul  has  given 
Its  own. 

The  stars  will  awaken, 
Though  the  moon  sleep  a  full  hour  later 
To-night : 
No  leaf  will  be  shaken, 
Whilst  the  dews  of  thy  melody  scatter 
Delight. 


SONG.  31 

Though  the  sound  overpowers, 
Sing  again,  with  thy  sweet  voice  revealing 
A  tone 
Of  some  world  far  from  ours, 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 


32 


AUTUMN. 


Sweet  Sabbath  of  the  year ! 

When  evening  lights  decay, 
Thy  parting  steps,  methinks,  I  hear 
teal  from  the  world  away. 

Amid  thy  silent  bowers, 

'T  is  sad,  but  sweet,  to  dwell, 

Where  falling  leaves  and  fading  flowers 
Around  me  breathe  farewell. 

Along  thy  sunset  skies 

Their  glories  melt  in  shade  ; 

And,  like  the  things  we  fondly  prize, 
Seem  lovelier  as  they  fade. 


AUTUMN.  33 

A  deep  and  crimson  streak 

The  dying  leaves  disclose  ; 
As  on  consumption's  waning  cheek, 

'Mid  ruin,  blooms  the  rose. 

The  scene  each  vision  brings 

Of  beauty  in  decay  ; 
Of  fair  and  early  faded  things, 

Too  exquisite  to  stay  ; 

Of  joys  that  come  no  more  ; 

Of  flowers  whose  bloom  is  fled  ; 
Of  farewells  wept  upon  the  shore  ; 

Of  friends  estranged  or  dead  ; 

Of  all,  that  now  may  seem 

To  memory's  tearful  eye 
The  vanished  beauty  of  a  dream, 

O'er  which  we  gaze  and  sigh  ! 


34 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 


I  am  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
On  a  bright  May  morning,  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride ; 
The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary  ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again : 


THE    LAMENT    OF    THE    IRISH    EMIGRANT.  35 

But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 
And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek, 

And  I  still  keep  listening  for  the  words 
You  never  more  may  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near,  — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, — 

I  see  the  spire  from  here  ; 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest ; 
For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  am  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends ; 
But,  O,  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, — 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ; 
There  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died  ! 


36  THE    WAIF. 

Your's  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arms'  young  strength  had  gone. 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow  ; 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile, 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger-pain  was  gnawing  there, 

And  you  hid  it,  for  my  sake  ! 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore  ; 
O,  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more ! 

I  am  bidding  ypu  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary,  —  kind  and  true  ! 
But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I  am  going  to  : 


THE   LAMENT    OF    THE    IRISH    EMIGHAKT.  37 

They  say  there  's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there  ; 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I  'It  sit  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies ; 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springing  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn 

When  first  you  were  my  bride ! 


38 


HE  STANDETH  AT  THE  DOOR  AND 
KNOCKETH. 


In  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

List,  —  thy  bosom  door  ! 
How  it  knocketh, — knocketh,  —  knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore  ! 
Say  not 't  is  thy  pulse's  beating : 

'T  is  thy  heart  of  sin  ; 
'T  is  thy  Saviour  knocks,  and  crieth, 

"  Rise,  and  let  me  in." 

Death  comes  on,  with  reckless  footsteps, 

To  the  hall  and  hut : 
Think  you  Death  will  tarry,  knocking, 

Where  the  door  is  shut  ? 


HE  STANDETH  AT  THE  DOOK  AND  KNOCKETH.   39 

Jesus  waiteth, — waiteth,  —  waiteth,  — 

But  the  door  is  fast ; 
Grieved,  away  thy  Saviour  goeth  ; 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 

Then,  't  is  thine  to  stand  entreating 

Christ  to  let  thee  in  ; 
At  the  gate  of  heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 
Nay,  —  alas,  thou  foolish  virgin  ! 

Hast  thou,  then,  forgot  ? 
Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee,  — 

Now  he  knows  thee  not. 


40 


KULNASATZ,  MY  REINDEER. 


Kulnasatz,  my  reindeer, 
We  have  a  long  journey  to  go  ; 
The  moors  are  vast, 
And  we  must  haste. 
Our  strength,  I  fear, 
Will  fail,  if  we  are  slow; 
And  so 
Our  songs  will  do. 

Kaige,  the  watery  moor, 
Is  pleasant  unto  me, 
Though  long  it  be, 


KULNASATZ,   MY   EEINDEEE.  41 

Since  it  doth  to  my  mistress  lead, 

"Whom  I  adore ; 

The  Kihva  moor 
I  ne'er  again  will  tread. 

Thoughts  filled  my  mind, 
Whilst  I  through  Kaige  passed, 
Swift  as  the  wind, 
And  my  desire 
Winged  with  impatient  fire  ; 
My  reindeer,  let  us  haste  ! 

So  shall  we  quickly  end  our  pleasing  pain,  — 

Behold  my  mistress  there, 
With  decent  motion  walking  o'er  the  plain. 
Kulnasatz,  my  reindeer, 
Look  yonder,  where 

She  washes  in  the  lake  ! 
See,  while  she  swims, 
The  water  from  her  purer  limbs 
New  clearness  take ! 


42 


SONNET  ON  AUTUMN. 


There  is  a  fearful  spirit  busy  now. 
Already  have  the  elements  unfurled 
Their  banners  :  the  great  sea-wave  is  upcurled  : 
The  cloud  comes :  the  fierce  winds  begin  to  blow 
About,  and  blindly  on  their  errands  go : 

And  quickly  will  the  pale  red  leaves  be  hurled 
From  their  dry  boughs,  and  all  the  forest  world, 
Stripped  of  its  pride,  be  like  a  desert  show. 
I  love  that  moaning  music  which  I  hear 

In  the  bleak  gusts  of  Autumn ;  for  the  soul 
Seems  gathering  tidings  from  another  sphere, 
And,  in  sublime,  mysterious  sympathy, 
Man's  bounding  spirit  ebbs  and  swells  more  high, 
Accordant  to  the  billow's  loftier  roll. 


43 


APRIL. 


All  clay  the  low-hung  clouds  have  dropper! 

Their  garnered  fulness  down  ; 
All  day  that  soft  gray  mist  hath  wrapped 

Hill,  valley,  grove,  and  town. 

There  has  not  been  a  sound  to-day 

To  break  the  calm  of  nature  ; 
Nor  motion,  I  might  almost  say, 

Of  life,  or  living  creature,  — 

Of  waving  bough,  or  warbling  bird, 

Or  cattle  faintly  lowing  ; 
I  could  have  half  believed  I  heard 

The  leaves  and  blossoms  growing. 


44  THE   7/AIF. 

I  stood  to  hear  —  I  love  it  well  — 
The  rain's  continuous  sound  ; 

Small  drops,  but  thick  and  fast  they  fell, 
Down  straight  into  the  ground. 

For  leafy  thickness  is  not  yet 
Earth's  naked  breast  to  screen, 

Though  every  dripping  branch  is  set 
With  shoots  of  tender  green. 

Sure,  since  I  looked  at  early  morn, 

Those  honeysuckle -buds 
Have  swelled  to  double  growth ;  that  thorn 

Hath  put  forth  larger  studs ; 

That  lilac's  cleaving  cones  have  burst, 
The  milk-white  flowers  revealing  ; 

Even  now,  upon  my  senses  first 
Methinks  their  sweets  are  stealing. 

The  very  earth,  the  steamy  air, 
Is  all  with  fragrance  rife  ; 


APRIL.  45 

And  grace  and  beauty  everywhere 
Are  flushing  into  life. 

Down,  down  they  come,  —  those  fruitful  stores  ! 

Those  earth-rejoicing  drops  ! 
A  momentary  deluge  pours, — 

Then  thins,  decreases,  stops. 

And  ere  the  dimples  on  the  stream 

Have  circled  out  of  sight, 
Lo !  from  the  west,  a  parting  gleam 

Breaks  forth  of  amber  light. 

But  yet,  behold  !  abrupt  and  loud, 

Comes  down  the  glittering  rain ; 
The  farewell  of  a  passing  cloud, 

The  fringes  of  her  train. 


4<i 


SONG. 


Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes, 

All  remedies  refusing ; 
A  plant  that  most  with  cutting  grows, 
Most  barren  with  best  using. 
Why  so  ? 
More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies  ; 
If  not  enjoyed,  it  sighing  cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Love  is  a  torment  of  the  mind, 

A  tempest  everlasting ; 
And  Jove  hath  made  it  of  a  kind 

Not  well,  nor  full,  nor  fasting. 


SONG.  47 


Why  so  ? 
More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies  ; 
If  not  enjoyed,  it  sighing  cries 

Heigh-ho  ! 


48 


THE   AWAKENING  OF  ENDYMION. 


Lone  upon  a  mountain,  the  pine-trees  wailing  round 
him, 
Lone  upon  a  mountain  the  Grecian  youth  is  laid  ; 
Sleep,  mystic  sleep,  for  many  a  year  has  bound  him, 
Yet  his  beauty,  like  a  statue's,  pale  and  fair,  is  un- 
decayed. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

When  will  he  awaken  ?  a  loud  voice  hath  been  crying 

Night  after  night,  and  the  cry  has  been  in  vain  ; 
Winds,  woods,  and  waves  found  echoes  for  replying, 
But  the  tones  of  the  beloved  ones  were  never  heard 
again. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Asked  the  midnight's  silver  queen. 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    ENDYMION.  49 

Never  mortal  eye  lias  looked  upon  his  sleeping ; 
Parents,  kindred,  comrades  have  mourned  for  him 
as  dead  ; 
By  day  the  gathered  clouds  have  had  him  in  their 
keeping, 
And  at  night  the  solemn  shadows  round  his  rest  are 
shed. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Long  has  been  the  cry  of  faithful  Love's  imploring ; 
Long  has  Hope  been  watching  with  soft  eyes  fixed 
above ; 
When  will  the  Fates,  the  life  of  life  restoring, 
Own  themselves  vanquished  by  much-enduring 
Love  ? 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Asks  the  midnight's  weary  queen. 

Beautiful  the  sleep  that  she  has  watched  untiring, 
Lighted  up  with  visions  from  yonder  radiant  sky, 

Full  of  an  immortal's  glorious  inspiring, 

Softened  by  a  woman's  meek  and  loving  sigh. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 


50  THE    WAIF. 

He  has  been  dreaming  of  old  heroic  stories, 

And  the  poet's  world  has  entered  in  his  soul ; 
He  has  grown  conscious  of  life's  ancestral  glories, 
When  sages  and  when  kings  first  upheld  the  mind's 
control. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Asks  the  midnight's  stately  queen. 

Lo,  the  appointed  midnight !  the  present  hour  is  fated ; 

It  is  Endymion's  planet  that  rises  on  the  air ; 
How  long,  how  tenderly  his  goddess  love  has  waited, 

Waited  with  a  love  too  mighty  for  despair  ! 
Soon  he  will  awaken ! 

Soft  amid  the  pines  is  a  sound  as  if  of  singing, 
Tones  that  seem  the  lute's  from  the  breathing 
flowers  depart ; 
Not  a  wind  that  wanders  o'er  Mount  Latmos  but  is 
bringing 
Music  that  is  murmured  from  Nature's  inmost  heart. 
Soon  lie  will  awaken 
To  his  and  midnight's  queen  ! 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    ENDYMION.  51 

Lovely  is  the  green  earth,  —  she  knows  the  hour  is 
holy; 
Starry  are  the  heavens,  lit  with  eternal  joy  ; 
Light  like  their  own  is  dawning  sweet  and  slowly 
O'er  the  fair  and  sculptured  forehead  of  that  yet 
dreaming  boy. 

Soon  he  will  awaken  ! 

Red  as  the  red  rose  towards  the  morning  turning, 

Warms  the  youth's  lip  to  the  watcher's  near  his  own ; 
While  the  dark  eyes  open,  bright,  intense,  and  burn- 
ing 
With  a  life  more  glorious  than,  ere  they  closed,  was 
known. 

Yes,  he  has  awakened 
For  the  midnight's  happy  queen ! 

What  is  this  old  history,  but  a  lesson  given, 

How  true  love  still  conquers  by  the  deep  strength 
of  truth, — 
How  all  the  impulses,  whose  native  home  is  heaven, 
Sanctify  the  visions  of  hope,  and  faith,  and  youth? 
'T  is  for  such  they  waken  ! 


52  THE    WAIF. 

When  every  worldly  thought  is  utterly  forsaken, 

Comes  the  starry  midnight,  felt  by  life's  gifted  few  ; 
Then  will  the  spirit  from  its  earthly  sleep  awaken 
To  a  being  more  intense,  more  spiritual,  and  true. 
So  doth  the  soul  awaken, 
Like  that  youth  to  night's  fair  queen ! 


53 


THE   LILY  OF  NITHSDALE. 


She  's  gane  to  dwell  in  heaven,  my  lassie, 

She  's  gane  to  dwell  i'  heaven  ! 
Ye  're  owre  pure,  quo'  the  voice  of  God, 

For  dwelling  out  o'  heaven  ! 

0,  what  '11  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie  ? 

0,  what  '11  she  do  in  heaven  ? 
She  '11  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi'  angels'  sangs, 

And  make  them  mair  meet  for  heaven ! 

She  was  beloved  by  a',  my  lassie, 

She  was  beloved  by  a' ; 
But  an  angel  fell  in  luvc  wi'  her, 

An'  took  her  frae  us  a'. 


54  THE   "WAIF. 

Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie, 

Low  there  thou  lies  ; 
A  bonnier  form  ne'er  went  to  the  yird, 

Nor  frae  it  will  arise. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my  lassie, 
I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face  ; 

Thou  seemed  a  lilie  new  cut  in  the  bud, 
An'  fading  in  its  place. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my  lassie, 
I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye  ; 

An'  a  lovelier  light  i'  the  brow  of  heaven 
Fell  Time  shall  ne'er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddie  and  calm,  my  lassie, 
Thy  lips  were  ruddie  and  calm  ; 

But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  o1  heaven, 
To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There  's  nought  but  dust  now  mine,  lassie  ; 

There  's  nought  but  dust  now  mine  ; 
My  saul  's  wi'  thee  i'  the  cauld  grave, 

An'  why  should  I  stay  behin'  ? 


55 


TO  THE   MOCKING-BIRD. 


Winged  mimic  of  the  woods !  thou  motley  fool, 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe  ? 
Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe. 
Wit,  —  sophist,  —  songster,  —  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 

Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school, 
To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 

Arch  scoffer,  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule  ! 
For  such  thou  art  by  day,  —  but  all  night  long 

Thou  pour'st  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 
As  if  thou  didst  in  this,  thy  moonlight  song, 

Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques,  complain, 
Musing  on  falsehood,  violence,  and  wrong, 

And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


56 


CHURCH-BELLS  HEARD  AT  EVENING. 


O  melancholy  bells,  who  toll  the  way 

To  dusty  death ! 
O  damp,  green  church-yard,  —  mounds  of  clay, 
Arched  inward  by  gray  bones,  which  once,  men  say, 
Were  moved  by  breath ! 

0,  never  seek  I  ye,  when  the  summer  day 

Is  past  and  flown ! 
But  rather  do  I  wander  far  away, 
Where'er  kind  voices  sound,  or  children  play, 
Or  love  is  known  ; 


CHURCH-BELLS  HEARD  AT  EVENING.      57 

By  some  friend's  quiet  hearth,  where  gentle  words 
Unsought  are  won  ; 

'Mongst  cheerful  music  sweet  of  morning  hircls  ; 

Or  list  to  lowings  deep  of  distant  herds, 
At  set  of  sun  ! 

Where  Nature  breathes  her  blossoms,  sweet  thoughts 
rise, 

Or  rivers  run,  — 
Where'er  life's  sunny  summer  spirit  flies, 
There  let  me  be,  until  my  body  dies, 

And  all  is  done  ! 


58 


THE  DEATH-BED. 


We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  being  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  ; 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 


THE    DEATH-BED.  59 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  ;  —  she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 


60 


THE   EVENING  HOUR. 


This  is  the  hour  when  memory  wakes 

Visions  of  joy  that  could  not  last ; 
This  is  the  hour  when  fancy  takes 
A  survey  of  the  past ! 

She  brings  before  the  pensive  mind 

The  hallowed  scenes  of  earlier  years, 
And  friends  who  long  have  been  consigned 
To  silence  and  to  tears  ! 

The  few  we  liked,  the  one  we  loved, — 
A  sacred  band  !  —  come  stealing  on ; 
And  many  a  form  far  hence  removed, 
And  many  a  pleasure  gone  ! 


THE    EVENING    HOUR.  61 

Friendships  that  now  in  death  are  hushed, 

And  young  affection's  hroken  chain, 
And  hopes  that  fate  too  quickly  crushed, 
In  memory  live  again  ! 

Few  watch  the  fading  gleams  of  day, 

But  muse  on  hopes  as  quickly  flown ; 
Tint  after  tint  they  died  away, 

Till  all  at  last  were  gone  ! 

This  is  the  hour  when  fancy  wreathes 

Her  spells  round  joys  that  could  not  last ; 
This  is  the  hour  when  memory  breathes 
A  sigh  to  pleasures  past ! 


62 


LOVE. 


He  stood  beside  a  cottage  lone, 

And  listened  to  a  lute, 
One  summer  eve,  when  the  breeze  was  gone, 

And  the  nightingale  was  mute. 
The  moon  was  watching  on  the  hill, 
The  stream  was  staid,  and  the  maples  still, 

To  hear  a  lover's  suit, 
That  —  half  a  vow,  and  half  a  prayer  — 
Spoke  less  of  hope  than  of  despair  : 
And  rose  into  the  calm,  soft  air, 

As  sweet  and  low 

As  he  had  heard  —  O,  woe  !  O,  woe  !  — 

The  flutes  of  angels,  long  ago  ! 


LOVE.  63 

"  By  every  hope  that  earthward  clings, 

By  faith  that  mounts  on  angel-wings, 

By  dreams  that  make  night-shadows  bright, 

And  truths  that  turn  our  day  to  night, 

By  childhood's  smile,  and  manhood's  tear, 

By  pleasure's  day,  and  sorrow's  year, 

By  all  the  strains  that  fancy  sings, 

And  pangs  that  time  so  surely  brings,  — 

For  joy  or  grief,  for  hope  or  fear, 

For  all  hereafter  as  for  here, 

In  peace  or  strife,  in  storm  or  shine, 

My  soul  is  wedded  unto  thine  ! " 

And  for  its  soft  and  sole  reply, 
A  murmur,  and  a  sweet,  low  sigh, 

But  not  a  spoken  word  ; 
And  yet  they  made  the  waters  start 

Into  his  eyes  who  heard, 
For  they  told  of  a  most  loving  heart, 

In  a  voice  like  that  of  a  bird  ;  — 
Of  a  heart  that  loved,  though  it  loved  in  vain,  — 
A  grieving,  and  yet  not  a  pain,  — 


64  THE    WAIF. 

A  love  that  took  an  early  root, 

And  had  an  early  doom, 
Like  trees  that  never  grow  to  fruit, 

And  early  shed  their  bloom, — 
Of  vanished  hopes  and  happy  smiles, 

All  lost  for  evermore ; 
Like  ships,  that  sailed  for  sunny  isles, 

But  never  came  to  shore  ! 


65 


NIGHT  AMONG  THE   ALPS. 


Come,  golden  Evening  !  in  the  west 

Enthrone  the  storm-dispelling  sun, 
And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest 

O'er  all  the  mountain-tops.  —  'T  is  done  ; 
The  tempest  ceases  ;  bold  and  brigbt, 

The  rainbow  shoots  from  hill  to  hill ; 
Down  sinks  the  sun  ;  on  presses  night ; 

Mont  Blanc  is  lovely  still ! 

There  take  thy  stand,  my  spirit !  —  spread 
The  world  of  shadows  at  thy  feet ; 

And  mark  how  calmly  overhead 

The  stars,  like  saints  in  glory,  meet : 


66  THE    WAIF. 

While,  hid  in  solitude  sublime, 

Methinks  I  muse  on  Nature's  tomb, 

And  hear  the  passing  foot  of  Time 
Step  through  the  silent  gloom. 

All  in  a  moment,  crash  on  crash, 

From  precipice  to  precipice, 
An  avalanche's  ruins  dash 

Down  to  the  nethermost  abyss, 
Invisible  ;  the  ear  alone 

Pursues  the  uproar  till  it  dies  ; 
Echo  to  echo,  groan  for  groan, 

From  deep  to  deep,  replies. 

Silence  again  the  darkness  seals, 

Darkness  that  may  be  felt ;  —  but  soon 
The  silver-clouded  east  reveals 

The  midnight  spectre  of  the  moon  ; 
In  half-eclipse  she  lifts  her  horn,  — 

Yet  o'er  the  host  of  heaven  supreme 
Brings  the  faint  semblance  of  a  morn, 

Wilh  her  awakening  beam. 


NIGHT    AMONG   THE    ALPS.  67 

Ah !  at  her  touch,  these  Alpine  heights 

Unreal  mockeries  appear ; 
With  blacker  shadows,  ghastlier  lights, 

Emerging,  as  she  climbs  the  sphere  ; 
A  crowd  of  apparitions  pale  ! 

I  hold  my  breath  in  chill  suspense,  — 
They  seem  so  exquisitely  frail,  — 

Lest  they  should  vanish  hence. 

I  breathe  again,  I  freely  breathe  ; 

Thee,  Leman's  Lake,  once  more  I  trace, 
Like  Dian's  crescent,  far  beneath, 

As  beautiful  as  Dian's  face  : 
Pride  of  the  land  that  gave  me  birth  ! 

All  that  thy  waves  reflect  I  love, 
Where  heaven  itself,  brought  down  to  earth, 

Looks  fairer  than  above. 

Safe  on  thy  banks  again  I  stray ; 

The  trance  of  poesy  is  o'er, 
And  I  am  here  at  dawn  of  day, 

Gazing  on  mountains  as  before, 


68  THE    WAIF. 

Where  all  the  strange  mutations  wrought 
Were  magic  feats  of  my  own  mind  ; 

For,  in  that  fairy  land  of  thought, 
Whate'er  I  seek,  I  find. 


69 


THEY  ARE   ALL  GONE. 


They  are  all  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  dressed, 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days,  — 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 


70  THE    WAIF. 

O  holy  hope,  and  high  humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  ye  have  showed 
them  me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death !  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged    bird's  nest 
may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 
Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep, 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted 
themes, 
And  into  glory  peep  ! 


71 


TO  A  LADY. 


Lady,  too  fair  !  the  sleepless  mariner, 

With  anxious  heart,  scanneth  the  midnight  sky ; 
On  one  bright  star  alone,  though  hosts  shine  near, 

Fixing  his  eye. 

For,  though  the  sea  in  cloud-high  waves  may  rise, 
Though  the  storm  rage,  and  felon  winds  rebel, 
He  knows  that  sweet  star  beameth  in  the  skies 

Unchangeable. 

Alas  for  him  who  life's  rough  sea  would  try, 

Fixing  his  gaze  on  meteors  blazing  far, 
Making  the  changeful  beam  of  beauty's  eye 

His  polar  star  ! 


72  THE    WAIF. 

The  seaman  trusts,  indeed,  nor  trusts  in  vain, 

For  constant  are  the  bright-eyed  host  of  heaven ; 
While  the  swift  changing  of  the  fickle  main 

To  beauty  's  given. 

But  thou,  who  in  the  pride  of  beauty  brave 

Shinest  brighter  than  the  fairest  star  on  high, 
Take  not  thy  pattern  from  the  fickle  wave, 

But  from  the  sky  ! 


73 


EACH  IN  ALL. 


Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown, 

Of  thee,  from  the  hill-top  looking  down  ; 

And  the  heifer,  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 

Far  heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm  ; 

The  sexton,  tolling  the  bell  at  noon, 

Dreams  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

As  his  files  sweep  round  yon  distant  height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbour's  creed  has  lent : 

All  are  needed  by  each  one, 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 


74  THE    WAIF. 

I  sought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough  ; 

I  brought  him  home  in  his  nest  at  even ;  — 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now ; 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky  ; 

He  sang  to  my  ear ;  they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave  ; 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me ; 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

And  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home  ; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar  ! 

Then  Iisaid,  "  I  covet  Truth  ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat,  — 
I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 


EACH    IN    ALL.  75 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs  ; 
I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath  ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 
Pine  cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground  ; 
Above  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 
Full  of  light  and  Deity  ; 
Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 
The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird  ;  — 
Beauty  through  my  senses  stole, 
I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


76 


THE   LOVER  TO  THE   GLOWWORMS. 


Ye  living  lamps,  by  whose  dear  light 
The  nightingale  does  sit  so  late, 

And,  studying  all  the  summer  night, 
Her  matchless  songs  does  meditate  ! 

Ye  country  comets,  that  portend 
No  war,  nor  prince's  funeral, 

Shining  unto  no  other  end 

Than  to  presage  the  grass's  fall ! 

Ye  glowworms,  whose  officious  flame 
To  wandering  mowers  shows  the  way, 

That  in  the  night  have  lost  their  aim, 
And  after  foolish  fires  do  stray  ! 


THE  LOVER  TO  THE  GLOWWORMS.       77 

Your  courteous  lights  in  vain  you  waste, 

Since  Juliana  here  is  come  ; 
For  she  my  mind  hath  so  displaced, 

That  I  shall  never  find  my  home. 


78 


HYMN   OF  THE   CHURCH-YARD. 


Ah  me  !  this  is  a  sad  and  silent  city ; 

Let  me  walk  softly  o'er  it,  and  survey 
Its  grassy  streets  with  melancholy  pity  ! 

Where  are  its  children  ?    where   their  gleesome 
play  ? 
Alas  !  their  cradled  rest  is  cold  and  deep,  — 
Their  playthings  are  thrown  by,  and  they  asleep. 

This  is  pale  beauty's  bourn:  but  where  the  beautiful, 
Whom  I  have  seen  come  forth  at  evening's  hours, 

Leading  their  aged  friends,  with  feelings  dutiful, 
Amid  the  wreaths  of  spring,  to  gather  flowers  ? 


HYMN    OF    THE    CHURCH-YAED.  79 

Alas  !  no  flowers  arc  here  but  flowers  of  death, 
And  those  who  once  were  sweetest  sleep  beneath. 

This  is  a  populous  place  :  but  where  the  bustling,  — 
The  crowded  buyers  of  the  noisy  mart,  — 

The  lookers  on,  —  the  snowy  garments  rustling,  — 
The  money-changers, — and  the  men  of  art  ? 

Business,  alas  !  hath  stopped  in  mid  career, 

And  none  are  anxious  to  resume  it  here. 

This  is  the  home  of  grandeur :  where  are  they, — 
The  rich,  the  great,  the  glorious,  and  the  wise  ? 

Where  are  the  trappings  of  the  proud,  the  gay,  — 
The  gaudy  guise  of  human  butterflies  ? 

Alas !  all  lowly  lies  each  lofty  brow, 

And  the  green  sod  dizens  their  beauty  now. 

This  is  a  place  of  refuge  and  repose  : 

Where  are  the  poor,  the  old,  the  weary  wight, 

The  scorned,  the  humble,  and  the  man  of  woes, 
Who  wept  for  morn,  and  sighed  again  for  night  ? 

Their  sighs  at  last  have  ceased,  and  here  they  sleep 

Beside  their  scorners,  and  forget  to  weep. 


80  THE   WAIF. 

This  is  a  place  of  gloom  :  where  are  the  gloomy  ? 

The  gloomy  are  not  citizens  of  death  : 
Approach  and  look,  where  the  long  grass  is  plumy ; 

See  them  above  !  they  are  not  found  beneath  ! 
For  these  low  denizens,  with  artful  wiles, 
Nature,  in  flowers,  contrives  her  mimic  smiles. 

This  is  a  place  of  sorrow :  friends  have  met 

And  mingled  tears  o'er  those  who  answered  not : 

And  where  are  they  whose  eyelids  then  were  wet  ? 
Alas  !  their  griefs,  their  tears,  are  all  forgot ; 

They,  too,  are  landed  in  this  silent  city, 

Where  there  is  neither  love,  nor  tears,  nor  pity. 

This  is  a  place  of  fear :  the  firmest  eye 
Hath  quailed  to  see  its  shadowy  dreariness ; 

But  Christian  hope,  and  heavenly  prospects  high, 
And  earthly  cares,  and  nature's  weariness, 

Have  made  the  timid  pilgrim  cease  to  fear, 

And  long  to  end  his  painful  journey  here. 


81 


DIRGE   IN  AUTUMN. 


'T  is  an  autumnal  eve,  —  the  low  winds  sighing 

To  wet  leaves,  rustling  as  they  hasten  by ; 
The  eddying  gust  to  tossing  boughs  replying, 

And  ebon  darkness  filling  all  the  sky  ; 
The  moon,  pale  mistress,  palled  in  solemn  vapor, 

The  rack,  swift  wandering  through  the  void  above, 
As  I,  a  mourner  by  my  lonely  taper, 

Send  back  to  faded  hours  the  plaint  of  love. 

Blossoms  of  peace,  once  in  my  pathway  springing, 

Where  have  your  brightness  and  your  splendor 

gone  ? 

6 


82  THE    WAIF. 

And  thou,  whose  voice  came  sweet  to  me  as  singing, 
What  region  holds  thee  in  the  vast  unknown  ? 

What  star,  far  brighter  than  the  rest,  contains  thee, 
Beloved,  departed,  —  empress  of  my  heart  ? 

What  bond  of  full  beatitude  enchains  thee 
In  realms  unveiled  by  pen  or  prophet's  art  ? 

Ah  !  loved  and  lost !  in  these  autumnal  hours, 

When  fairy  colors  deck  the  painted  tree, 
When  the  vast  woodlands  seem  a  sea  of  flowers, 

O,  then  my  soul,  exulting,  bounds  to  thee  ; 
Springs,  as  to  clasp  thee  yet  in  this  existence, 

Yet  to  behold  thee  at  my  lonely  side  ! 
But  the  fond  vision  melts  at  once  in  distance, 

And  my  sad  heart  gives  echo,  —  She  has  died  ! 

Yes  !  when  the  morning  of  her  years  was  brightest, 
That  angel  presence  into  dust  went  down  ; 

While  yet  with  rosy  dreams  her  rest  was  lightest, 
Death,  for  the  olive,  wove  the  cypress  crown  ; 

Sleep,  which  no  waking  knows,  o'ercame  her  bosom,  — 
O'crcame  her  large,  bright,  spiritual  eyes  ; 


DIRGE    IN    AUTUMN.  83 

Spared  in  her  bower  connubial  one  fair  blossom,  — 
Then  bore  her  spirit  to  the  upper  skies. 

There  let  me  meet  her,  when,  life's  struggles  over, 

The  pure  in  love  and  thought  their  faith  renew, 
Where  man's  forgiving  and  redeeming  Lover 

Spreads  out  his  paradise  to  every  view. 
Let  the  wild  autumn,  with  its  leaves  descending, 

Howl  on   the   winter's  verge  !  —  yet  spring  will 
come ; 
So,  my  freed  soul,  no  more  'gainst  fate  contending, 

With  all  it  loveth,  shall  regain  its  home. 


84 


THE  DROP  OF  DEW. 


See  how  the  orient  dew, 
Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 

Into  the  blowing  roses, 
Is  careless  of  its  mansion  new  : 
For  the  clear  region  where  't  was  born 

It  in  itself  incloses  ; 
And  in  its  little  globe's  extent, 
Frames,  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 
How  it  the  purple  flower  does  slight, 

Scarce  touching  where  it  lies  ; 
But,  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 
Shines  with  a  mournful  light, 


THE    DROP    OF    DEW.  85 

Like  its  own  tear ! 
Because  so  long  divided  from  the  sphere, 
Restless  it  rolls,  and  unsecure, 

Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure  ; 
Till  the  warm  sun  pities  its  pain, 
And  to  the  skies  exhales  it  back  again. 

So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray, 
Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  day, 
Could  it  within  the  human  flower  be  seen, 
Remembering  still  its  former  height, 
Shuns  the  sweet  leaves  and  blossoms  green ; 
And,  recollecting  its  own  light, 
Does,  in  its  pure  and  circling  thoughts,  express 
The  greater  heaven  in  a  heaven  less. 
In  how  coy  a  figure  wound, 
Eveiy  way  it  turns  away  ! 
So  the  world  excluding  round, 
Yet  receiving  in  the  day  : 
Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above  ; 
Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 
How  loose  and  easy  hence  to  go  ! 
How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend  ! 


86  THE    WAIF. 

Moving  but  on  a  point  below, 

It  all  about  does  upwards  bend. 
Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  distil, 
White  and  entire,  although  congealed  and  chill ; 
Congealed  on  earth  ;  but  does,  dissolving,  run 
Into  the  glories  of  the  almighty  sun. 


87 


wishes. 


Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  she, 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me  ; 

Where'er  she  lie, 

Locked  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny  ; 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  fate  stand  forth 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth  ; 


88  THE    WAIF. 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine  ; 

Meet  you  her,  my  wishes, 
Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 
And  be  ye  called  my  absent  kisses. 


I  wish  her 


A  face  that 's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  dressed, 

And  can  alone  command  the  rest ; 

A  cheek  where  youth 

And  blood,  with  pen  of  truth, 

Write  what  the  reader  sweetly  ru'th ; 

Eyes  that  displace 

The  neighbour  diamond,  and  outface 

That  sunshine  by  their  own  sweet  grace  ; 


WISHES.  89 

Tresses  that  wear 

Jewels,  but  to  declare 

How  much  themselves  more  precious  are, 

Whose  native  ray 

Can  tame  the  wanton  day 

Of  gems,  that  in  their  bright  shades  play ; 

Days  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow 

From  a  forespent  night  of  sorrow  ; 

Days  that,  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night ; 

Life  that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  its  end, 

And,  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome,  friend  ! 

Sydnsean  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers  ; 


90  THE    WAIF. 


Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  Day's  forehead  bright, 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  Night ; 

In  her  whole  frame 

Have  nature  all  the  name, 

And  art  and  ornament  the  shame. 

She  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see  ; 

I  seek  no  farther ;  it  is  she. 


91 


TO  ALTHEA,  FROM  PRISON. 


When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Allhea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates  : 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fettered  to  her  eye  ; 
The  birds,  that  wanton  in  the  air, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 
With  no  allaying  Thames, 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 
Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  : 


92  THE    WAIF. 

When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 
When  healths  and  draughts  go  free  ; 

Fishes,  that  tipple  in  the  deep, 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnet,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King  : 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud,  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be ; 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free  ; 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


93 


DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 


I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

His  fair,  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair  ; 

Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes  ;  -»-  he  is  not  there  ! 

I  walk  my  parlour  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  door, 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  his  chamber  stair  ; 

I  'm  stepping  toward  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that  —  he  is  not  there ! 


94  THE    WAIF. 

I  thread  the  crowded  street : 

A  satchelled  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair  ; 

And,  as  he  's  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that  —  he  is  not  there  ! 


I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin  lid  ; 
Closed  are  his  eyes  ;  cold  is  his  forehead  fair ; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt ; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that  —  he  is  not  there  ! 


I  cannot  make  him  dead  ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watched  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  it  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that  —  he  is  not  there ! 


DEATH    OF    A   CHILD.  95 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up  with  joy 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy  ; 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought,  that  —  he  is  not  there ! 


When,  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I  'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer ; 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though  —  he  is  not  there  ! 


Not  there  !     Where,  then,  is  he  ?  — 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear ; 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-off*  dress, 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked,  —  he  is  not  there  ! 


96  THE    WAIF. 

He  lives  !  —  in  all  the  past 

He  lives  ;  nor,  to  the  last, 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair  : 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now  ; 

And  on  his  angel  brow 
I  see  it  written,  "  Thou  shalt  see  me  there  !  " 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God  ! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit  land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'T  will  be  our  heaven  to  find  that  —  he  is  there  ! 


97 


HUMAN  PRIDE. 


Why  should  man's  high  aspiring  mind 

Burn  in  him  with  so  proud  a  breath, 
When  all  his  haughty  views  can  find 

In  this  world  yields  to  death  ? 
The  fair,  the  brave,  the  vain,  the  wise, 

The  rich  and  poor,  the  great  and  small, 
Are  each  but  worms'  anatomies, 

To  strew  his  quiet  hall. 

Power  may  make  many  earthly  gods, 
Where  gold  or  bribery's  guilt  prevails ; 

But  death's  unwelcome,  honest  odds 
Kick  o'er  the  unequal  scales. 

7 


98  THE    WAIF. 

The  flattered  great  may  clamors  raise 

Of  power,  —  and  their  own  weakness  hide  ; 

But  death  shall  find  unlooked-for  ways 
To  end  the  farce  of  pride. 

« 
An  arrow,  hurtled  e'er  so  high, 

E'en  by  a  giant's  sinewy  strength, 
In  time's  untraced  eternity, 

Goes  but  a  pigmy  length,  — 
Nay,  whirring  from  the  tortured  string, 

With  all  its  pomp  of  hurried  flight, 
'T  is  by  the  skylark's  little  wing 

Outmeasured  in  its  height. 

Just  so  man's  boasted  strength  and  power 

Shall  fade  before  death's  lightest  stroke  ; 
Laid  lower  than  the  meanest  flower,  — 

Whose  pride  o'ertopped  the  oak : 
And  he,  who,  like  a  blighting  blast, 

Dispeopled  worlds  with  war's  alarms, 
Shall  be  himself  destroyed,  at  last, 

By  poor  despised  worms. 


HUMAN   PEIDE.  99 

Tyrants  in  vain  their  powers  secure, 

And  awe  slaves'  murmurs  with  a  frown  ; 

But  unawed  death  at  last  is  sure 
To  sap  the  Babels  down. 

A  stone  thrown  upward  to  the  sky- 
Will  quickly  meet  the  ground  again  : 

So  men-gods  of  earth's  vanity 
Shall  drop  at  last  to  men  ; 

And  power  and  pomp  their  all  resign, 

Blood-purchased  thrones  and  banquet-halls. 
Fate  waits  to  sack  ambition's  shrine 

As  bare  as  prison  walls, 
Where  the  poor  suffering  wretch  bows  down 

To  laws  a  lawless  power  hath  passed ;  — 
And  pride,  and  power,  and  king,  and  clown 

Shall  be  death's  slaves  at  last. 

Time,  the  prime  minister  of  death, 

There  's  naught  can  bribe  his  honest  will ; 

He  stops  the  richest  tyrant's  breath, 
And  lays  his  mischief  still : 


100  THE    WAIF. 

Each  wicked  scheme  for  power  he  stops, 
With  grandeur's  false  and  mock  display  ; 

As  eve's  shades  from  high  mountain-tops 
Fade  with  the  rest  away. 

Death  levels  all  things  in  his  march, 

Naught  can  resist  his  mighty  strength  ; 
The  palace  and  triumphal  arch 

Shall  mete  their  shadows'  length  : 
The  rich,  the  poor,  one  common  bed 

Shall  find  in  the  unhonored  grave, 
Where  weeds  shall  crown  alike  the  head 

Of  tyrant  and  of  slave. 


101 


TO  LUCASTA. 


If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 
Away  from  thee ; 
Or  that,  when  I  am  gone, 
You  or  I  were  alcne  ; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind  or  swallowing  wave. 

But  I  '11  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 
To  swell  my  sail, 
Or  pay  a  tear  to  'suage 
The  foaming  blue-god's  rage ; 
For,  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,  I  'm  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 


102  THE    WAIF. 

Though  seas  and  lands  be  'twixt  us  both, 
Our  faith  and  troth, 
Like  separated  souls, 
All  time  and  space  controls : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet, 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  greet  as  angels  greet. 

So,  then,  we  do  anticipate 
Our  after- fate, 
And  are  alive  i'  th'  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  heaven, — their  earthly  bodies  left  behind. 


103 


WHERE   ARE   THE   DEAD? 


Where  are  the  mighty  ones  of  ages  past, 
Who  o'er  the  world  their  inspiration  cast,  — 
Whose  memories  stir  our  spirits  like  a  blast  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  are  old  empires'  sinews  snapped  and  gone  ? 
Where  is  the  Persian  ?  Mede  ?  Assyrian  ? 
Where  are  the  kings  of  Egypt  ?  Babylon  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  are  the  mighty  ones  of  Greece  ?  Where  be 
The  men  of  Sparta  and  Thermopylae  ? 
The  conquering  Macedonian,  where  is  he  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 


104  THE    WAIF. 

Where  are  Rome's  founders  ?     Where  her  chiefest 

son, 
Before  whose  name  the  whole  known  world  bowed 

down,  — 
Whose  conquering  arm  chased  the  retreating  sun  ? — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  's  the  bard-warrior-king  of  Albion's  state, 
A  pattern  for  earth's  sons  to  emulate,  — 
The  truly,  nobly,  wisely,  goodly  great  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  is  Gaul's  hero,  who  aspired  to  be 
A  second  Ca?sar  in  his  mastery,  — 
To  whom  earth's  crowned  ones  trembling  bent  the 
knee  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 

Where  is  Columbia's  son,  her  darling  child, 
Upon  whose  birth  Virtue  and  Freedom  smiled,  — 
The  Western  Star,  bright,  pure,  and  undefiled  ?  — 
Where  are  the  dead  ? 


WHERE   ARE    THE    DEAD?  105 

Where  are  the  sons  of  song,  the  soul-inspired,  — 
The  bard  of  Greece,  whose  muse  (of  heaven  acquired) 
With  admiration  ages  past  has  fired,  — 
The  classic  dead  ? 

Where  is  the  fairie  minstrel  ?  and,  O,  where 
Is  that  lone  bard  who  dungeon  gyves  did  bear, 
For  his  love-song  breathed  in  a  princess'  ear,  — 
The  gentle  dead  ? 

Where  is  the  poet  who  in  death  was  crowned, — 
Whose  clay-cold  temples  laurel  chaplets  bound, 
Mocking  the  dust,  —  in  life  no  honor  found, — 
Th'  insulted  dead  ? 

Greater  than  all,  —  an  earthly  sun  enshrined,  — 
Where  is  the  king  of  bards  ?    Where  shall  we  find 
The  Swan  of  Avon, —  monarch  of  the  mind, — 
The  mighty  dead  ? 

Did  they  all  die,  when  did  their  bodies  die, 
Like  the  brute  dead  passing  for  ever  by  ? 


106  THE    WAIF. 

Then  wherefore  was  their  intellect  so  high,  — 
The  mighty  dead  ? 

Why  was  it  not  confined  to  earthly  sphere, — 
To  earthly  wants  ?     If  it  must  perish  here, 
Why  did  they  languish  for  a  bliss  more  dear,  — 
The  blessed  dead  ? 

All  things  in  nature  are  proportionate  : 
Is  man  alone  in  an  imperfect  state,  — 
He  who  doth  all  things  rule  and  regulate  ?  — 
Then  where  the  dead  ? 

If  here  they  perished,  where  their  beings  germ, — 
Here  were  their  thoughts',  their  hopes',  their  wishes' 

term, — 
Why  should  a  giant's  strength  propel  a  worm  ?  — 
The  dead  !  the  dead  ! 

There  are  no  dead  !     The  forms,  indeed,  did  die, 
That  cased  the  ethereal  beings  now  on  high  : 
'T  is  but  the  outward  covering  is  thrown  by  :  — 
This  is  the  dead  ! 


WHERE   ARE    THE    DEAD  ?  107 

The  spirits  of  the  lost,  of  whom  we  sing, 
Have  perished  not ;  they  have  but  taken  wing,  — 
Changing  an  earthly  for  a  heavenly  spring  : 
There  are  the  dead  ! 

Thus  is  all  nature  perfect.     Harmony 
Pervades  the  whole,  by  His  all-wise  decree, 
With  whom  are  those,  to  vast  infinity, 
We  misname  dead. 


108 


A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 


It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea. 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars,  — 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago. 


A   CHRISTMAS    HYMN.  109 

'T  was  in  the  calm  and  silent  night, 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  : 
Triumphal  arches  gleaming  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway  ; 
What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago? 

Within  that  province  far  away, 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor ; 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half-shut  stable-door 
Across  his  path.     He  passed,  —  for  naught 

Told  what  was  going  on  within  ; 
How  keen  the  stars,  his  only  thought,  — 

The  air,  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 


110  THE   WAIF. 

O,  strange  indifference  !  low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares  ; 
The  earth  was  still,  —  but  knew  not  why 

The  world  was  listening,  —  unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  for  ever ! 
To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 

Man's  doom  was  linked  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness,  —  charmed  and  holy  now  ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  shame  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay,  new-born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 


Ill 


NO  MORE. 


No  more  !  a  harp-string's  deep,  sad,  breaking  tone, 

A  last  low  summer  breeze,  a  far-off  knell, 
A  dying  echo  of  rich  music  gone, 

Breathe  through  those  words,  —  those  murmurs  of 
farewell,  — 

No  more ! 

To  dwell  in  peace  with  home  affections  bound, 
To  know  the  sweetness  of  a  mother's  voice, 

To  feel  the  spirit  of  her  love  around, 

And  in  the  blessing  of  her  age  rejoice, — 

No  more ! 


112  THE    WAIF. 

A  dirge-like  sound  !  —  to  greet  the  early  friend 
Unto  the  hearth,  his  place  of  many  days  ; 

In  the  glad  song  with  kindred  lips  to  blend, 

Or  join  the  household  laughter  by  the  blaze,  — 

No  more  ! 

Through  woods  that  shadowed  our  first  years,  to  rove, 

With  all  our  native  music  in  the  air  ; 
To  watch  the  sunset  with  the  eyes  we  love, 

And  turn  and  meet  our  own  heart's  answer  there, — 

No  more  ! 

Words  of  despair !  —  yet  earth's,  all  earth's,  the  woe 
Their  passion  breathes,  —  the  desolately  deep  ! 

That  sound  in  heaven,  —  O,  image,  then,  the  flow 
Of  gladness  in  its  tones !  —  to  part,  to  weep,  — 

No  more  ! 

To  watch  in  dying  hope  affection's  wane, 

To  see  the  beautiful  from  life  depart, 
To  wear  impatiently  a  secret  chain, 

To  waste  the  untold  riches  of  the  heart, — 

No  more  ! 


NO    MORE.  113 

Through  long,  long  years  to  seek,  to  strive,  to  yearn 
For  human  love,  and  never  quench  that  thirst ; 

To  pour  the  soul  out,  winning  no  return, 
O'er  fragile  idols,  by  delusion  nursed,  — 

No  more  ! 

On  tilings  that  fail  us,  reed  by  reed,  to  lean ; 

To  mourn  the  changed.,  the  far  away,  the  dead ; 
To  send  our  searching  spirits  through  the  unseen, 

Intensely  questioning  for  treasures  fled,  — 

No  more  ! 

Words  of  triumphant  music  !  bear  we  on 
The  weight  of  life,  the  chain,  the  ungenial  air ; 

Their  deathless  meaning,  when  our  tasks  are  done, 
To  learn  in  joy  ;  —  to  struggle,  to  despair,  — 

No  more ! 


114 


TO  DAFFODILS. 


Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon ; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noon  : 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hastening  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song  ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 


TO    DAFFODILS.  115 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you  ; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring, 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you,  or  any  thing  : 
We  die, 

As  your  hours  do ;  and  dry 
Away 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


116 


TO  PRIMROSES. 


Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  ?    Can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you, 
Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teemed  her  refreshing  dew  ? 
Alas  !  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower  ; 
Nor  felt  th'  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind  ; 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years  ; 

Or  warped,  as  we, 

Who  think  it  strange  to  see 

Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 

To  speak  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue 


TO    PRIMROSES.  117 

Speak,  whimpering  younglings ;  and  make  known 
The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep. 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 
Or  childish  lullaby  ? 
Or,  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet  ? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweetheart  to  this  ? 
No,  no  ;  this  sorrow,  shown 

By  your  tears  shed, 
Would  have  this  lecture  read, 
"  That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceived  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears  brought 
forth." 


118 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 


Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past, 

But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What !  were  ye  born  to  be 
An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good  night  ? 

'T  is  pity  nature  brought  ye  forth 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 


TO    BLOSSOMS.  119 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  ; 

And,  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 
Like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 


120 


THE   GRASSHOPPER. 

TO  MY  NOBLE  FRIEND,  MR.  CHARLES  COTTON. 

O  thou,  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving  hair 

Of  some  well  filled  oaten  beard, 
Drunk  every  night  with  a  delicious  tear 

Dropped  thee  from  heaven,  where  now  thou  'rt 
reared  ! 

The  joys  of  earth  and  air  are  thine  entire, 

That  with  thy  feet  and  wings  dost  hop  and  fly  ; 

And  when  thy  poppy  works,  thou  dost  retire 
To  thy  carved  acorn-bed  to  lie. 

Up  with  the  day,  the  sun  thou  welcom'st  then, 
Sport'st  in  the  gilt-plats  of  his  beams, 

And  all  these  merry  days  mak'st  merry  men, 
Thyself,  and  melancholy  streams. 


THE    GRASSHOPPER.  121 

But,  ah,  the  sickle  !  golden  ears  are  cropped  ; 

Ceres  and  Bacchus  bid  good  night ; 
Sharp,  frosty  fingers  all  your  flowers  have  topped, 

And  what  scythes  spared,  winds  shave  off"  quite. 

Poor,  verdant  fool !  and  now,  green  ice !  thy  joys 
Large  and  as  lasting  as  thy  perch  of  grass, 

Bid  us  lay  in  'gainst  winter  rains,  and  poise 
Their  floods  with  an  o'erflowing  glass. 

Thou  best  of  men  and  friends  !  we  will  create 
A  genuine  summer  in  each  other's  breast ; 

And,  spite  of  this  cold  time  and  frozen  fate, 
Thaw  us  a  warm  seat  to  our  rest 

Our  sacred  hearths  shall  burn  eternally 
As  vestal  flames  ;  the  north-wind,  he 

Shall  strike  his  frost-stretched  wings,  dissolve,  and  fly 
This  jEtna  in  epitome. 

Dropping  December  shall  come  weeping  in, 
Bewail  th'  usurping  of  his  reign  ; 


122  THE    WAIF. 

But,  when  in  showers  of  old  Greek  we  begin, 
Shall  cry,  he  hath  his  crown  again ! 

Night,  as  clear  Hesper,  shall  our  tapers  whip 
From  the  light  casements  where  we  play, 

And  the  dark  hag  from  her  black  mantle  strip, 
And  stick  there  everlasting  day. 

Thus,  richer  than  untempted  kings  are  we, 
That,  asking  nothing,  nothing  need  : 

Though  lord  of  all  what  seas  embrace,  yet  he 
That  wants  himself  is  poor  indeed. 


123 


SWEET  PHOSPHOR,  BRING  THE  DAY. 


Will  't  ne'er  be  morning  ?    Will  that  promised  light 

Ne'er  break  and  clear  those  clouds  of  night  ? 

Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day, 

Whose  conquering  ray 

May  chase  these  fogs !  Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day ! 

How  long,  how  long  shall  these  benighted  eyes 

Languish  in  shades,  like  feeble  flies 

Expecting  Spring  ?    How  long  shall  darkness  soil 

The  face  of  earth,  and  thus  beguile 

Our  souls  of  sprightful  action  ?    When,  when  will  day 

Begin  to  dawn,  whose  new-born  ray 


124  THE    WAIF. 

May  gild  the  weathercocks  of  our  devotion, 

And  give  our  unsouled  souls  new  motion  ? 

Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  ! 

Thy  light  will  fray 

These  horrid  mists  :  Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day ! 

Let  those  have  night,  that  slyly  love  to  immure 

Their  cloistered  crimes,  and  sin  secure  ; 

Let  those  have  night,  that  blush  to  let  men  know 

The  baseness  they  ne'er  blush  to  do ; 

Let  those  have  night,  that  love  to  have  a  nap 

And  loll  in  Ignorance's  lap  ; 

Let  those,  whose  eyes,  like  owls,  abhor  the  light, 

Let  those  have  night,  that  love  the  night : 

Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  ! 

How  sad  delay 

Afflicts  dull  hopes  !  Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  ! 

Alas !  my  light-in- vain-expecting  eyes 
Can  find  no  objects,  but  what  rise 
From  this  poor  mortal  blaze,  a  dying  spark 
Of  Vulcan's  forge,  whose  flames  are  dark, 


SWEET   PHOSPHOR,   BRING   THE    DAY.  125 

A  dangerous,  dull,  blue-burning  light, 
As  melancholy  as  the  night : 
Here  's  all  the  suns  that  glitter  in  the  sphere 
Of  earth  :  Ah  me  !  what  comfort 's  here  ? 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  ! 
Haste,  haste  away, 

Heaven's  loitering  lamp  !  Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the 
day ! 

Blow,  Ignorance  !  O  thou,  whose  idle  knee 
Rocks  earth  into  a  lethargy, 
And  with  thy  sooty  fingers  hast  benight 
The  world's  fair  cheeks,  blow,  blow  thy  spite  ! 
Since  thou  hast  puffed  our  greater  taper,  do 
Puff  on,  and  out  the  lesser  too  : 
If  e'er  that  breath-exiled  flame  return, 
Thou  hast  not  blown,  as  it  will  burn  : 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  ! 
Light  will  repay 

The  wrongs  of  night  :    Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the 
day! 


126 


THE  BRIDGE   OF  SIGHS. 


One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 

Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  : 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements, 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS.  12"? 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently,  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  : 
All  that  remains  of  her, 

Now,  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 

Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers,  — 

One  of  Eve's  family,  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 

Oozing  so  clammily. 


128  THE    WAIF. 

Loop  up  her  tresses, 

Escaped  from  the  comh,  — 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses, 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or,  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one    * 

Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas,  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun ! 
O,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS.  129 

Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light, 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless,  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 

But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  flowing  river  : 

Mad  from  life's  history, 

Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurled,  — 

Anywhere,  anywhere 

Out  of  the  world  ! 
9 


130  THE   WAIF. 

In  she  plunged  boldly,  — 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it : 
Picture  it,  think  of  it, 

Dissolute  man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  : 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS.  131 

As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest! 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behaviour ; 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 


132 


THE  ANTIQUE   SEPULCHRE. 


O  ever-joyous  band 
Of  revellers  amidst  the  southern  vines ' 
On  the  pale  marble,  by  some  gifted  hand, 

Fixed  in  undying  lines  ! 

Thou  with  the  sculptured  bowl, 
And  thou,  that  wearest  the  immortal  wreath, 
And  thou,  from  whose  young  lip  and  flute  the  soul 

Of  music  seems  to  breathe  ! 

And  ye,  luxuriant  flowers, 
Linking  the  dancers  with  your  graceful  ties, 
And  clustered  fruitage,  born  of  sunny  hours 

Under  Italian  skies ! 


THE    ANTIQUE    SEPULCHRE.  133 

Ye,  that  a  thousand  springs, 
And  leafy  summers,  with  their  odorous  breath, 
May  yet  outlast ;  what  do  ye  there,  bright  things, 

Mantling  the  place  of  death  ? 

Of  sunlight,  and  soft  air, 
And  Dorian  reeds,  and  myrtles  ever  gr    n, 
Unto  the  heart  a  glowing  thought  ye  bear;  — 

Why  thus,  where  dust  hath  been  ? 

Is  it  to  show  how  slight 
The  bound  that  severs  festivals  and  tombs, 
Music  and  silence,  roses  and  the  blight, 

Crowns  and  sepulchral  glooms  ? 

Or,  when  the  father  laid 
Happy  his  child's  pale  ashes  here  to  sleep, 
When  the  friend  visited  the  cypress  shade, 

Flowers  o'er  the  dead  to  heap  ; 

Say  if  the  mourners  sought 
In  these  rich  images  of  summer  mirth, 


134  THE    WAIF. 

These  wine-cups  and  gay  wreaths,  to  lose  the  thought 
Of  our  last  hour  on  earth  ? 

Ye  have  no  voice,  no  sound, 
Ye  flutes  and  lyres,  to  tell  me  what  I  seek ; 
Silent  ye  are,  light  forms  with  vine-leaves  crowned  ; 

Yet  to  my  soul  ye  speak. 

Alas,  for  those  that  lay 
Down  in  the  dust  without  their  hope  of  old  ! 
Backward  they  looked  on  life's  rich  banquet-day, 

But  all  beyond  was  cold. 

Every  sweet  wood-note,  then, 
And  through  the  plane-trees  every  sunbeam's  glow, 
And  each  glad  murmur  from  the  homes  of  men, 

Made  it  more  hard  to  go. 

But  we,  when  life  grows  dim, 
When  its  last  melodies  float  o'er  our  way, 
Its  changeful  hues  before  us  faintly  swim, 

Its  flitting  lights  decay  ; 


THE    ANTIQUE    SEPULCHRE.  135 

Even  though  we  bid  farewell 
Unto  the  spring's  blue  skies  and  budding  trees, 
Yet  may  we  lift  our  hearts,  in  hope  to  dwell 

'.Midst  brighter  things  than  these ; 

And  think  of  deathless  flowers, 
And  of  bright  streams  to  glorious  valleys  given  ; 
And  know,  the  while,  how  little  dreams  of  ours 

Can  shadow  forth  of  heaven  ! 


136 


ET  EXALTAVIT  HUMILES. 


How  cheerfully  the  unpartial  sun 

Gilds  with  his  beams 

The  narrow  streams 
O1  th'  brook  which  silently  doth  run 

Without  a  name  ! 

And  yet  disdains  to  lend  his  flame 
To  the  wide  channel  of  the  Thames  ! 

The  largest  mountains  barren  lie, 

And  lightning  fear, 

Though  they  appear 
To  bid  defiance  to  the  sky ; 

Which  in  one  hour 

We  've  seen  the  opening  earth  devour, 
When  in  their  height  they  proudest  were. 


ET    EXALTAVIT    HUMILES.  137 

But  the  humble  man  heaves  up  his  head, 

Like  some  rich  vale 

Whose  fruits  ne'er  fail, 
With  flowers,  with  corn,  and  vines  o'erspread  ; 

Nor  doth  complain, 

O'erflowed  by  an  ill-seasoned  rain, 
Or  battered  by  a  storm  of  hail. 

Like  a  tall  bark  treasure-fraught, 

He  the  seas  clear 

Doth  quiet  steer : 
But  when  they  are  to  a  tempest  wrought, 

More  gallantly 

He  spreads  his  sail,  and  doth  more  high, 
By  swelling  of  the  waves,  appear. 

For  the  Almighty  joys  to  force 

The  glorious  tide 

Of  human  pride 
To  the  lowest  ebb  ;  that  o'er  his  course, 

Which  rudely  bore 

Down  what  opposed  it  heretofore, 
His  feeblest  enemy  may  stride. 


138  THE    AVAIF. 

But  from  his  ill-thatched  roof  he  brings 

The  cottager, 

And  doth  prefer 
Him  to  the  adored  state  of  kings  : 

He  bids  that  hand, 

Which  labor  hath  made  rough  and  tanned, 
The  all-commanding  sceptre  bear. 

Let,  then,  the  mighty  cease  to  boast 

Their  boundless  sway : 

Since  in  their  sea 
Few  sail,  but  by  some  storm  are  lost. 

Let  them  themselves 

Beware  ;  for  they  are  their  own  shelves : 
Man  still  himself  hath  cast  away. 


139 


LINES  TO  A  WITHERED  LEAF  SEEN  ON 
A  POET'S  TABLE. 


Poet's  hand  has  placed  thee  there, 
Autumn's  brown  and  withered  scroll ! 

Though  to  outward  eye  not  fair, 
Thou  hast  beauty  for  the  soul. 

Though  no  human  pen  has  traced 
On  that  leaf  its  learned  lore, 

Love  divine  the  page  has  graced,  — 
What  can  words  discover  more  ? 

Not  alone  dim  Autumn's  blast 
Echoes  from  yon  tablet  sere,  — 

Distant  music  of  the  past 
Steals  upon  the  poet's  ear. 


140  THE    WAIF. 

Voices  sweet  of  summer  hours, 
Spring's  soft  whispers  murmur  by ; 

Feathered  songs  from  leafy  bowers 
Draw  his  listening  soul  on  high. 


141 


SONG  FOR  AUGUST. 


Beneath  this  starry  arch, 

Naught  resteth  or  is  still ; 

But  all  things  hold  their  march, 

As  if  by  one  great  will. 

Moves  one,  move  all ; 

Hark  to  the  footfall ! 

On,  on,  for  ever. 

Yon  sheaves  were  once  but  seed  : 
Will  ripens  into  deed  ; 
As  cave-drops  swell  the  streams, 
Day  thoughts  feed  nightly  dreams, 
And  sorrow  tracketh  wrong, 
As  echo  follows  song,  — 
On,  on,  for  ever. 


142  THE    WAIF. 

By  night,  like  stars  on  high, 

The  hours  reveal  their  train  ; 
They  whisper  and  go  by  ; 
I  never  watch  in  vain. 
Moves  one,  move  all ; 
Hark  to  the  footfall ! 
On,  on,  for  ever. 

They  pass  the  cradle  head, 
And  there  a  promise  shed  ; 
They  pass  the  moist  new  grave, 
And  bid  rank  verdure  wave  ; 
They  bear  through  every  clime 
The  harvests  of  all  time, — 
On,  on,  for  ever. 


143 


THE   INDIAN  BURYING-GROUND. 


In  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 
I  still  my  old  opinion  keep  ; 

The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 
Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands,  — 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 

Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast. 

His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison,  for  a  journey  dressed, 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul,  — 
Activity,  that  knows  no  rest. 


144  THE    WAIF. 

His  bow,  for  action  ready  bent, 
And  arrows,  with  a  head  of  stone, 

Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 
And  not  the  old  ideas  gone. 


By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 
In  habit  for  the  chase  arrayed, 

The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues,  — 
The  hunter  and  the  deer,  a  shade  ! 

And  long  shall  timorous  Fancy  see 
The  painted  chief  and  pointed  spear ; 

And  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 
To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 


THE     END. 


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